


they'll need you when they hunt your skin

by penhaligon



Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhaligon/pseuds/penhaligon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Settled, Arthur thinks. He knows what that means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Run red deer,_  
_they'll need you when they hunt your skin._

\- Matthew and the Atlas, "Pale Sun Rose"

* * *

Arthur wakes up to find a red fox peering down at him, her forepaws balanced on his shoulder and her face inches from his. It’s the same form he remembers from, well… however long ago he passed out.

He’s aware of a lot of things all at once – he’s alive, he’s in a hospital room, memories both bizarre and embarrassing are trickling back into his mind, and his mother’s coat is on the foot of the bed, which means that she must be nearby – but he can only focus on one thing. “Laurel?” he says, and it comes out with a faint wheeze. He recalls the sensation of some unidentifiable weight dropping in the pit of his stomach in the same moment that the minute hand had made contact with his skin, and his own hand tightens reflexively into a fist. All of that, Monday and Sneezer and the minute hand, it had been an oxygen-deprived hallucination… right? But he feels different. Or Laurel does. Something is  _different_. “Are you-?”

“Settled,” Laurel says. Her earnest face is still very close to his, looking at him in concern. “Yeah.”

Arthur takes a moment to process this, trying to drag his mind out of fuzziness and disorientation. He thinks back, and a shudder runs through him when he remembers Sneezer grabbing Laurel. That hadn’t felt like a hallucination. No one had ever touched his daemon before; it’s illegal, and he's beginning to understand why. The nauseating, skin-crawling sensation had done half the work in robbing him of breath and energy, practically immobilizing him in a way that even his lungs couldn't. Laurel had been in the form of a dog, then; she’d shifted into a mastiff to protect him. But it hadn’t made a difference. And then she’d changed again, when the minute hand had been placed into Arthur’s hand.

Some part of him had known that was  _it_ , but he hadn’t had time to think about it or ask. He’d barely had time to breathe.

“I saw them too,” Laurel says, and Arthur isn’t actually surprised, even though it doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t remember Monday or Sneezer having daemons. It's unsettling to recall, and it makes the entire thing seem even more dreamlike. But Laurel seems certain, and Arthur decides that it’s better to trust her than his dazed brain right now. Unconsciousness is tugging at him again, and in light of recent events and his spinning head, it's an appealing concept.

But he's still perturbed, and he doesn't understand anything, and he tries again, mustering himself. "Laurel, wha-"

"Go to sleep," she tells him patiently, brushing her nose against his cheek. She's always been the voice of reason between them. Arthur recalls her urging him not to run, and he sorely regrets not listening her. It's a common theme for them, he thinks, a little guiltily. But she's usually a lot more impatient about scolding him. He wonders if being settled has anything to do with it. "We'll figure it out later."

 _Settled,_  Arthur thinks, as his eyes grow heavier. He knows what that means. Maturity, of some sort, which doesn’t really make sense either – he’s still just a kid, as far as he knows.

He reaches up to scratch behind Laurel’s ear, and she leans into it, emitting a raspy little purr that draws a weak smile out of him. The shape of his soul is a fox, and his mind automatically jumps to what people say about foxes. You’re not really supposed to judge by a person’s daemon, and cultural assumptions are always wrong, but people make them anyway. Foxes are clever liars and tricksters, or that’s what people say. Foxes are a small, hardy canine species, and that’s what textbooks say. Arthur wonders what the truth is, because he doesn’t feel like any of that. He just feels tired.

The last thing he’s conscious of is Laurel curling up against him, tucking her head against his neck. 

* * *

Suzy doesn’t remember much, after a while – not even how long ‘a while’ is. After one too many washings between the ears, holding memories is a bit like holding air. Sometimes she remembers a woman, and sometimes it’s a flash of blue that has nothing to do with the surname that isn’t really hers. She remembers her name, but it’s short, like that’s not all there is. She remembers Ash’s name like that, too. There’s more to it; she’s sure of that, and so is he. But despite any effort on their part, the rest of their names evade them, always dancing just out of reach.

It’s easier to think of it like this – at least she still remembers Ash, completely. Even when Suzy doesn’t know much else, she knows that he is  _hers_. And her daemon always knows her.

He’s some kind of creature that doesn’t have a name in her head. Grayish and soft, shaped like a small elongated person, with bright orange-yellow eyes and a long striped tail. Suzy doesn’t remember exactly when he settled, though she’s certain that it was here, in the House. Sometimes she thinks that it’s strange that he settled into an animal that she can’t name, but then again, she’s probably seen one like him before, somewhere in this place.

The House has a lot of animals running around, courtesy of the Piper. Denizens don’t have daemons of their own, but some of them like to pretend that they do. They’re not normal animals anymore, the ones that were brought into the House, and only some of them are content to be pets. There’s more of them running wild, but no one seems to mind enough to do anything about it, or else they just stopped trying. The animals liven up the place, and Suzy thinks that there are few things funnier than, say, a Denizen trying to coax an unenthusiastic cat closer using all manner of undignified methods.

They do alright, her and Ash. The Lower Atrium is boring, and ink-filling is boring, but they have each other, at least. Denizens who aren’t higher-ups are a decent sort and don’t particularly mind if Suzy and Ash get up to occasional mischief. Like elevator racing, a favorite game of theirs when the Lower Atrium gets a little  _too_  boring. But nothing ever changes, not really, and time often blurs, and it’s impossible to get beyond a few floors.

Which is why Suzy is more than a little interested when a green frog hops up to them and starts talking.

The animals in the House can talk, so that in and of itself isn’t surprising. They also tend to prefer Piper’s Children, and Suzy doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary when the frog approaches them. But then it actually opens its mouth and starts talking about Wills and Rightful Heirs and demanding assistance with the blustering authority of something ten times its size, and it’s the strangest thing Suzy’s seen and heard in a while.

As far as daemons go, Ash isn’t particularly big, but the frog is small, and Ash looms over it suspiciously, relishing the chance to be bigger than something for once. Suzy is right behind him, squinting down. To the frog’s credit, it seems unfazed. Its agitated hopping has more to do with its growing impatience. It’s calling itself the Will, and Suzy is realizing that it’snot one of the animals that the Piper brought into the House.

“How do I know you’re not just talkin’ a bunch of crazy?” Suzy asks.

 _I don’t think it is,_  Ash says silently.

 _Seems sincere enough,_  Suzy agrees.

The frog – or the Will, whatever it is – hops exceptionally high, practically vibrating with exasperation. “The Will must be done!” it says. “There is no time to waste on foolish questions!”

It wants a ride and to help whoever this Heir is, and Suzy has done more risky things in her time here, she thinks. Ash turns and scampers up to her shoulder, his favorite spot.  _It'll be fun,_  he says lightly,  _for a little while._

Suzy shrugs in agreement and holds out a hand for the frog to jump on. 

* * *

Ash and Laurel are touching noses in farewell, as affectionately as if they’ve known each other for years. Suzy pulls away before Arthur can hug her back and looks at their daemons instead. Arthur does so too and smiles as Laurel drops down into a playful stance and Ash makes an exaggerated expression with his mouth and eyes.

Suzy looks back at Arthur abruptly, and her eyes are wide. “D’you know what he is?” she asks, and her voice is quiet, somewhere between sudden hope and resisting it.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that she’s talking about Ash and another moment for him to realize just what her question means. “Oh,” he says, and his smile fades. “He’s a lemur. They, uh…” He can’t remember much about lemurs. For all that schools place emphasis on learning the animal kingdom every year, he’s too tired for his memory to be anything other than foggy and elusive. But he wants to offer something else, anything, and he tries to focus. “They live in forests, I think.”

Suzy mouths the word without saying it, as if testing the feel of it. She glances at Ash and, after a moment of contemplation, smiles widely. “Suits ‘im,” she says in satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees. “It does.”

Suzy hesitates and then hugs him again, once again too fast for his impaired reaction time. She steps back towards Dawn and Noon and Dusk, and Arthur is almost used to the way that Denizens don't have daemons, how odd they look standing next to Suzy. Ash runs up to her and scales her as easily as tree, perching on her shoulder.

Laurel runs to Arthur, and he scoops her up, moving stiffly. Even this small act feels like scaling a mountain. Laurel’s never felt so heavy in his arms before. He runs a hand through her coarse fur and tries not to think about the awful sound of her wailing when the Hour Hand had driven itself into his chest, a sound that hasn’t stopped ringing in his ears yet. He can’t help looking her over repeatedly, but she looks the same and no worse for the wear. She feels the same. But the Old One’s words ring in his ears almost as loudly.

_“A mortal who wields the Key will become its tool as much as it is his. It will change you, in blood and bone, remaking you in the image of its maker. The Key does not befit a mortal bearer. In time, it will remake its wielder.” A pause, and the Old One looks at Laurel, who stares back defiantly, back arched and tail lashing. There’s something in the Old One’s reddened eyes that Arthur can’t name, but he shivers at the sight of it. “Your soul is irreplaceable, and it is far better to guard it than to carelessly toss it aside. Think carefully about that, Arthur. To wield power is never without cost.”_

What does that mean for Laurel? Will she change too, if he keeps using the Key? Or... but Arthur pushes the thought aside. He can’t even fathom losing her, and he’s not about to start trying. He’s not going to let it get that far.

 _I won’t let anything happen to you,_  Arthur thinks, more to himself than anything, but Laurel hears him anyway.

 _I know,_  she says, shifting in his arms so that she can nuzzle his hand.  _We’ll figure this out._

She's always been the voice of reason, and Arthur tends to believe her, but this time, it isn't enough to entirely quell the cold stirring of fear in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur  
> \- red fox: unusually small canine species known for being adaptable/resourceful and able to fit into multiple ecological niches; fox kits are typically at high risk for death and those who manage to survive into adulthood are tough  
> \- Laurel: the laurel tree is a Greek/Roman symbol of victory and is associated with Apollo, the god of music, plague, and prophecy; in Christianity, laurel is associated with victory, Christ, and achieving immortality
> 
> Suzy  
> \- ring-tailed lemur: social, in-group focused species of lemur who have adapted to live in a variety of habitats, known for being playful, lazy, and socially aggressive  
> \- Ash: a base element for several English names; the ash tree is associated with warding off childhood illness and with Yggdrasil, the world tree in Norse cosmology


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how long it took me to clean the rest of this up and post it, other than being depressed.

Humans have a story about them, the Mariner and his albatross. It’s not always the House that imitates mortals; sometimes, elements of it make their way into mortal consciousness instead. It’s hardly an accurate tale, but then again, mortals are known for their innovation, not faithful imitation. It’s not entirely inaccurate either, but as Tom glances at his daemon, perched near him on the gunwale, he almost smiles at the absurdity of the thought that he could ever hurt her.

Almost. He thinks of his mother, then, and the almost-smile becomes a frown.

The Line of Storms looms ahead. Lightning and thunder rage, mercilessly rending the sea and burning the air, but as the ship nears, no waves or wind dare to disturb it. Tom pays the tempest no mind. Sometimes he likes to admire it, but this time, he stares unseeingly ahead as his ship passes safely through the hurricane, guided by instinctive touch from his thoughts. His harpoon is cradled in the crook of one arm, and he can't decide whether to put it away or hold onto it tighter.

He's aware of Maris shifting closer to him. A high-pitched keen escapes her, and he reaches out automatically, running his fingers through her soft down and feathers.

"Are you sure?" she asks softly. Beyond them, the Line of Storms howls, but here on the ship, the chaos is muted and distant, held at bay.

Tom is more than sure, but Maris wouldn't be Maris if she didn't question him. He can feel the air shifting around them, changing, as they emerge from the Line and glide into an Earth ocean that mortals call the Atlantic. The Secondary Realms feel palpably different from the House. It's easier to breathe here, and he takes in the salt smell of the wind and the warmth of sun on open sea. "I am," he says at last. In truth, he's always preferred the Secondary Realms, and now he has every reason to remain here.

Maris's wings shift, ruffling. "Some might call it running."

Tom laughs, though there isn't any humor in it. "Aye," he acknowledges with a nod. "I'll own that."

The albatross eyes him sympathetically, but he can tell that she isn't done. "We could try," she says. "We could try to reason with-"

"Reason?" Tom asks, interrupting her. "With Mother? You should know better than that."

He knows himself, too, and he knows why Maris hadn't pressed the issue until they were on the other side of the Line of Storms. She doesn't want to go back and try to mediate peace any more than he or anyone else in their family does. It would be a fruitless endeavor. _Reason_ is not possible where his family is concerned. But one of them has be the voice of the whisper-small insistence that they should try regardless, and Maris takes that upon herself.

She knows, however, that - like anything in their family - it's a losing battle. Her wings deflate, and Tom strokes her again. She'd given up much faster than usual, with hardly a fight, and he knows what it speaks to. They're both tired.

But this planet is invigorating and full of change and life, and Tom breathes it all in again, tasting salt in the back of his throat. Before them, the Atlantic glitters deep blue, and somewhere beyond the horizon, mortal life awaits. It's always been a part of him as much as immortal life has, and it's calling to him now, louder than the mess behind him. "Come now," he says to his daemon, setting aside his harpoon and stretching. "This will be good for us."

Maris droops with a weight that he feels all too strongly, but she looks out over the water and straightens after a few moments. She unfurls her wings and lazily lets the breeze catch them, lifting her. She can't go far from Tom, but they have a range greater than that of mortals, and she can fly over the ship with ease. Tom senses her spirits rising with the wind.

"Where to?" she calls down to him.

Tom smiles and heads for the helm.

* * *

Jinan's large green eyes are fixed on the newest addition to the Incomparable Gardens, her hackles raised as she watches Sunday's Dawn and Noon and Dusk finish their work around it, putting the finishing touches on the area. Sunday hesitates, then crouches down to run his fingers through her fur. The wildcat relents from her cautious watch only a little, leaning into his touch but otherwise still fixated on the tree with her back arched. The display rather ruins Sunday's carefully cultivated image of composure, but he cannot blame her for her nerves.

It puts him on edge too, especially having it in the center of his Gardens. It's as if he can sense its malice, oozing from the tree and making his head itch.

 _I don't like this,_ Jinan says, for the tenth time.

 _Neither do I,_ Sunday replies, with a patience reserved for no one else.  _But what else would you have me do?_

Jinan doesn't respond. There is no good answer to that.

The Denizens finish and turn to Sunday, who dismisses them with a nod of thanks. Soon enough, he and Jinan are alone in the Elysium, and Sunday gazes at the tree. With only his daemon around, he has no need for composure, and the veneer falls away as his lips pull back in a scowl. His hatred is evident in the way that Jinan's fur stands on end, in her faint hissing. He strokes her head and then lifts her in his arms, standing and moving a little closer to the tree in order to inspect it and make sure, for the tenth time, that it will remain firm against what he'd constructed it to hold.

Standing near it is uncomfortable - a sick, swooping feeling within him, as if something is trying to pull his very particles apart.

"What if it's not enough?" Jinan asks, restless in his arms.

"It is," Sunday says, with growing confidence. He can sense the Will straining within, but that's all it can do. He and his fellow Days have put all of their power and ability into this endeavor. Their very existence depends on it, after all. It isn't a decision they've undertaken lightly, and his mother is not the only one with power.

Sunday's scowl deepens, and he moves away from the tree, wanting to get away from the pressure that it seems to exert on everything near it. At the edge of the Elysium, he can't feel that effect, and his certainty grows. It can rot here, for all he cares. He's never much liked the Elysium, anyway.

Jinan persists. "But what if-"

"There is no need for hypotheticals," Sunday says firmly. He doesn't want to consider what ifs because there is no better alternative. "This will work."

The wildcat falls silent with a huff. He can feel her elevated heartbeat against his arms - a testament to the fact that part of him is not as certain as he seems. His fingers run over her back soothingly. "If it doesn't," he amends, somewhat grudgingly, "we will deal with it then."

"All I'm saying is that caution would serve us well." Jinan rubs her head against him, letting affection belie her irritation. "We should at least check on the others."

She is right, as much as Sunday wants to put this business behind him as soon as possible and return to things less unpleasant. She is usually right. Sunday's grip on her tightens imperceptibly as he leaves the Elysium and makes his way through the Gardens, letting the green sense of life relax him. It relaxes Jinan too; she quiets in his arms, the further they get from the Elysium. He supposes he could put her down, and that cradling his daemon close like a common animal is undignified, but he finds himself unwilling to relinquish his hold just yet. As if her nearness can stave off the unease, the betrayal that he's felt since learning the contents of the Will.

He is not like his mother. He is not so willing to throw things away. He barely understands it, and he hasn't ever since their family broke apart - irreparably, it seems.

She won't have her way this time, he thinks. She can do what she wants with her own existence, but she will not do the same to his or Jinan's or anyone else's. He won't allow it.

Jinan's heartbeat is steadier now, and Sunday holds her close and assures himself that this will work.

* * *

The Piper sees the covetous glances that are occasionally thrown Euterpe’s way, and he makes quite a business out of it.

_(The hands on Euterpe scald him. The repulsive sensation is paralyzing, even to him, a son of the Architect and the Old One.)_

He’s already brought his Children and his Rats into the House, and other creatures are not difficult to obtain from Earth and enhance in ways similar to his Rats. It’s Earth creatures that the Denizens want, to match the ones that humans have evolved on their own. That is, in part, what makes them so fascinating – they sprung up on their own and then, like his mother, manifested their souls externally.

_(Her shrieking cuts through his being like a knife. For one brief moment, he’s reminded of the mortal notion that hyenas sound like they are laughing when they make that sound. It is the furthest thing from laughter.)_

The House often trades in mortal experience, and the Piper taps into that market, but even he has limits. It is impossible to create actual daemons for Denizens. He can take animals and give them sentience, but he cannot simply produce the energy that forms daemons, nor the bond that he shares with Euterpe. She _is_ him, even though the forms they take are completely separate and different – one in the shape of a youthful human and one in the shape of a sleek four-legged predator. He avoids bringing spotted hyenas into the House because he doesn’t want anyone imitating his daemon. She's his, and his alone, and there is nothing else like her.

_(What follows it even worse than someone else laying a hand on Euterpe. What follows is indescribable.)_

Amusingly, it doesn’t go quite as expected, and the House ends up with many of the sentient creatures running amok, unwilling to answer to anyone. The Piper can't be disappointed in the results when it makes the place far more interesting. No one does anything about it, possibly because the paperwork involved is not worth the effort and possibly because they aren’t sure what the Piper will do if someone interferes with his creations.

_(Searing pain sinks into every elementary particle that makes him up, and for a moment, he almost loses himself completely. He can feel himself losing her, his Euterpe, as Nothing severs their bond and consumes her. He can’t reach her as she cries out for him one last time. He can’t do anything except hold on to the last spark of himself that he has left, as every other part of him dies.)_

He would not take to it kindly. The creatures are not daemons, but they are his. He loves them. They are close enough to daemons, he thinks, for someone who cannot otherwise experience the joy of having one.

Of course, that joy can't be wholly recreated. It's precious and singular, and he can't fathom how anyone would reject it.

His father had given Euterpe her name, after a deity that mortals dreamed up. He'd named all of his children's daemons. Sometimes the Piper wonders if the Old One had sensed his sons' natures beforehand.

_(But the last part of him – daemon-less, furious, and bitterly cursing the circumstances that led to this – does not die.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Mariner  
> \- albatross: a species of seabird known for its lengthy lifespan and ability to travel great distances with ease; a central figure in ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’  
> \- Maris: Latin, meaning of the sea
> 
> Sunday  
> \- African wildcat: a solitary, methodical, conflict-avoidant subspecies of wildcat that is known for attempting to bluff its way out of fights but is nevertheless quite vicious when provoked  
> \- Jinan: Arabic, meaning garden or paradise
> 
> the Piper  
> \- spotted hyena: a social but individualistic species of hyena, known for being competitive, determined, and assertive and for their distinctive sound  
> \- Euterpe: the Greek muse primarily associated with music and lyric poetry


End file.
